


just the earth's shadow

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Suicide Attempt, tying up loose ends canon forgot about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On September 30th, 1996, you bring a baby girl into this world.</p>
<p>You will not make your mother’s mistakes. You will try to recreate her triumphs. When your little girl tells you she wants to be a fireman, the first words out of your mouth will be, “Go get ‘em, tiger.” You will tell her the same thing when she wants to be a doctor, a princess, and an astronaut. Your daughter can do anything, you tell your husband, reverent, while you’re holding her for the first time and crying.</p>
<p>You name her Erica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just the earth's shadow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still really pissed that we didn't find out what happened with Erica's family after she died.
> 
> This is my way of trying to fill in that gap.
> 
> Title from 3x07, Currents.

On September 30th, 1996, you bring a baby girl into this world.

You will not make your mother’s mistakes. You will try to recreate her triumphs. When your little girl tells you she wants to be a fireman, the first words out of your mouth will be, “Go get ‘em, tiger.” You will tell her the same thing when she wants to be a doctor, a princess, and an astronaut. Your daughter can do _anything_ , you tell your husband, reverent, while you’re holding her for the first time and crying.

You name her Erica.

 

* * *

 

 

Your daughter does decide she wants to be a fireman, and a doctor, and an astronaut, all by the time she’s eight. She also wants to be a rock star, and a werewolf, and a professional cake taster. She doesn’t want to be a princess, though. She wants to be a queen.

You tell her she already is.

 

* * *

 

At 11:04 AM on September 23rd, 2004, you are making coffee and discussing the pilot of Lost with a coworker.

At 11:05, your daughter has her first seizure.

 

* * *

 

Things change, after that.

You don’t stay late at work anymore. You work from home, when you can, but you are with Erica, whenever you can be. You are with her when her first medication makes her throw up every night for a month, holding her hand because the doctor said she should just _wait it out_. You drive to school to pick up her assignments when the second medication makes her sleep for thirteen hours a day.

You don’t remember what happens with medications three, four, and five, but number six works until she’s twelve.

Seven and eight are disasters, and she has to repeat eighth grade.

You take it upon yourself to teach her how to complete the square and use a comma properly.

 

* * *

 

Your daughter is bright.

This is not your opinion as a biased parent. This is the opinion of teachers, brows knotted with sympathy, or concern, urging you to find an alternative to public school for your daughter.

You want to. You know Erica isn’t a loner by choice, and that medications ten and eleven only suppresses the _majority_ of her seizures. You know, and you have never felt so powerless.

 

* * *

 

You can’t afford any sort of private schooling, and you and your husband don’t have time to teach her everything.

Given the choice between paying her medical bills and getting her out of school, you’ll pick her health any day.

She resents you for it.

 

* * *

 

One day, a week after Erica turns fifteen, you pick her up from school after a seizure. She says something about camera phones, and she’s angry, but when you get home she goes to bed all the same, because her seizures are exhausting.

You tuck her in and kiss her on the forehead.

 

* * *

 

Every antiepileptic drug has the same warning on it – the FDA warns that these medications increase the risk of suicide and suicidal thoughts, blah blah blah.

You have seen that label every time your daughter has gotten a new medication. Six years of medications, so far, and that’s one of the only things you haven’t thought twice about.

You think about it a lot, though, when your husband drives Erica to the hospital, going 85 in a 45, because your little girl’s heart is still beating, but she _won’t wake up_.

Your husband talks to the doctors, because your daughter is with doctors now. She is in good hands, and this means you can relax. It means you can curl  up against a wall, let sobs rip through your body, and think about your girl, angry and broken and tired, a note next to her – FUCK YOU ALL written in sharpie, on a torn out sheet of notebook paper. There’s a different sheet of paper tucked into your pocket, one folded up, with _mom & dad_ written on the outside.

Your hands are shaking too hard for you to unfold it.

 

* * *

 

They tell you there weren’t enough pills left to do permanent damage, not when you found her so quickly. They tell you she’ll be okay, ultimately.

All you can do is cry.

 

* * *

 

When they finally let her out of the hospital, almost a month later, you’re stuck. You still can’t place her doctors and medications on any sort of back burner to her happiness. She needs to be alive to be healthy.

But you’ve told her, and you will always tell her – she can do _anything_.

Your sister is a high school teacher in Washington, and she’s on maternity leave.

It’ll only get you until February, but it’s a start.

 

* * *

 

Something happens that March, though.

One minute, Erica’s in the hospital, and then suddenly there’s a stranger living in your home.

 

* * *

 

Erica stops taking her medications. She doesn’t know you notice, but you do. She goes shopping. She spends time with people you’ve never met. You’re not sure whether to be happy for her, or concerned, or just confused.

You settle on _all of the above._

 

* * *

 

Your daughter no longer sleeps at home.

You don’t know how to talk to her anymore.

 

* * *

 

Weird things happen in Beacon Hills. This has been a fact of life since you moved here, and it’s gotten more extreme lately. People are dying, now.

And people talk, in the office. You know the Hale family has always been odd, and is now represented solely by wanted criminal Derek Hale. You know Isaac Lahey’s father just died.

You know that Derek and Isaac are your daughter’s closest friends.

You worry about your little girl.

 

* * *

 

One day, you hear a car pull up outside just as you’re sitting down to dinner – only two places set, nowadays, just you and your husband. You no longer expect your daughter to come home.

Still, you go up to the door and glance outside, just in case it’s someone dropping her off.

It’s not. It’s the sheriff’s son.

He walks right up to the door and raises a hand to knock, before apparently thinking better of it and walking away.

You like him. He was always kind to Erica.

You hope he’s keeping her safe.

 

* * *

 

Your little girl doesn’t seem so little anymore. She no longer makes herself seem as small as possible. This woman demands space, demands attention, and she’s healthy now, somehow.

You’re still confused, and you’re still concerned, but you’re realizing that whatever’s going on with your daughter is _good_. You accept it, after a few weeks.

You are no longer the most important person in her life, but at least she’s finally _living_.

 

* * *

 

You start to panic when you haven’t seen Erica in a week.

A week becomes two, then three, then a month.

When the cops have done all they can, you stop sleeping. You make flyers with Erica’s face all over them, with a photo of the Boyd boy on there too. You hang these posters everywhere. You try to find leads, like parents in movies do when their kids go missing. There aren’t any. You’re just grasping at straws, but it’s better than sitting around, doing nothing.

 

* * *

 

In July, the sheriff’s kid shows up at your house again. He doesn’t really say anything, but the two of you sit on your porch in silence for the better part of an hour.

He tells you he misses her.

You tell him to leave.

 

* * *

 

He turns up again a week or two later. You try to ask him if he knows anything. The words don’t really come out right, but he seems to understand. He shakes his head, tells you he wishes he did.

You invite him to stay for dinner. You aren’t surprised when he tells you his dad’s waiting for him at home.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two and a half months, and you are no longer waiting for news. You’re dreading it.

 

* * *

 

On September 17th, 2012, they find your daughter’s body, in an abandoned bank vault.

_Abduction_ , they tell you, but you’re not listening because your baby girl was being kept less than ten miles away.

You’re not listening, because your baby girl isn’t going to be okay this time.

 

* * *

 

When you’ve screamed and sobbed until your voice can’t go above a whisper, you tell your husband that you need to leave Beacon Hills.

He nods, wipes away his own tears, and packs an overnight bag for you both.

 

* * *

 

You leave California. You leave the west coast. You end up in Michigan.

You don’t go back to get all of your things. You call your brother-in-law, and he sells the house for you. He mails you the important things – your mother’s china, your passports, Erica’s baby pictures.

You start over.

 

* * *

 

On February 19th, 2015, you bring a baby girl into this world.

You will not repeat your own mistakes. You will try to recreate your triumphs. When your little girl tells you she is angry, or sad, the first words out of your mouth will be, “I’m right here.” You will tell her the same thing when she is scared at night, or when she’s lost. Your daughter can do _anything_ , and you will always be there to protect her.

You name her Meredith.

 


End file.
